Two Halves Make a Hole
by Winter's Light
Summary: America wants to break it off. England is understandably confused. Revolutionary fic. Slight America/England.


**Two Halves Make a Hole**

**First Half**

It was like any other ordinary day. England would leave the very next day for his ship would depart at noon. Yet, America knew he had to tell England sooner or later. A strange, twisting feeling knotted in his stomach as he thought about how exactly to tell him—his father figure. But America was still America, and that very morning, after England had finished deep-frying their breakfast and sat down, America blurted out that he wanted to break it off.

England was understandably confused.

"'Break it off'?" he asked lightly, spooning a large helping of his wonderful breakfast onto America's plate, "break what off?" A small smile danced on his lips, thinking it was only a game. He handed America his plate.

America took it and began playing around with the contents, pushing the burnt food back and forth while glancing nervously at England.

"England," he began slowly, "I don't want to be your colony… I don't want to be known as America; colony of Great Britain," he paused, looking at England straight in the eyes, "I want to be known as America: the country."

There was no time for musing. The china England had brought over—or at least one of the cups-was now on the floor with a loud clash. America looked at it with wide eyes, knew how special it was to England, and looked back at him to gauge his reaction.

But America wanted to look away—was it in fear?

England had stood up, looking very much like the Great British Empire he was. "_No_," he said, in a clipped voice, "end of discussion." Without another word, the bewildered America watched as England marched outside.

He sighed, running a hand through his familiar blonde hair and wondered if England knew just how serious he was. But he didn't have time to wonder—a hot, burning sensation that began with his heart climbed through his body—he gasped. The heat was too much—and he saw England's worried and frantic expression before passing out.

"America!" England had just enough time to scream before America fainted dead away. He reached the other and quickly pressed a hand on the boy's forehead.

_Not…warm at all._

England felt his worry wash away (he'd only come back to apologize for his harshness), but the tide had left debris of concern. Was this a new illness? He thought, panicking, remembering his days in the 1400s and then about a century later.

_No, it couldn't be_, he argued, noting that Evelyn had decided to show herself.

"Yes, yes, alright," he chided lightly as the faerie motioned to America's room. He heaved America up on two legs and managed to secure an arm around his neck. He began hauling his charge, noting with suppressed glee and slight nervousness, that America seemed much heavier and taller than he had seen him last.

When England came back to America's room after digging out a few washcloths, he immediately noticed another boy sitting on the bed, watching America sleep.

Startled, he jumped back, swiftly pulling out the sword he kept by his side. "Who are you?" he demanded and was shocked to find America staring back at him.

"What the…" he gasped, glancing once at the blonde head resting on the pillows to make sure he wasn't just deluding himself. _Bloody hell…_

Glancing back and forth between the sleeping America and the smirking America, England felt dread well up in his stomach as he realized what America had become.

"No…" England whispered, "he—he was split?" A rock settled in his stomach, next to dread. America had to have been kidding, right?

"That's right," America's voice replied. England jolted, another voice, deeper than the America he knew, came out of America's mouth. "We've split ever since he's declared that to you—to your face."

The smirking America stood up and strutted up to England. He had to lean back when America shoved his smiling face into England's, had to bite back the urge to tackle him to the floor…the scent, he realized, was a spicy, sweet smell, and he couldn't understand why he was so attracted to this fool already and—

"You're with me, aren't you?" England asked, almost breathlessly. He watched as America threw back his head and laughed, gulped when America ran a hand through the same blonde hair…

"You got it—Loyalists," he replied, grinning with pride. He leaned further in, hand on England's shoulder, and whispered into his ear, "I'm with you…" He glanced distastefully in the sleeping America's direction and muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like "damn Patriots".

But even without the Loyalist muttering that, England could tell the sleeping America was against him. Because when he cast his eyes there after the Loyalist's proclamation, he felt resentment. It was not the first time nor would it be his last, but the resentment was strong, so strong, swelling up inside his chest… He had to smother it!

But the Loyalist felt it.

He turned towards England, smirking. "You hate him, right?" he whispered, "after all, he would destroy your empire if you allowed him to keep going—it would destroy you. Your work, your _hard_ work, all of it! It would just dwindle away… Just wait 'til the world hears that the Great British Empire lost a colony—" the boy said, paused, and gave England a devilish smile, "just before it ASKED to leave…"

England shivered.

"You wouldn't want that to happen, now would you?" the other American whispered, "you have sword…go on," he gestured to the weapon fisted in England's hands.

"We're _nations_, we can't die in such a foolish way," England argued, lips pursed. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he still wanted to crush America; the brat. Yet a bell rang loud and heavy, warning him—why did he call the one on his side, the other America?

The Loyalist's seductive whispers ("You're kidding me, right?"—"Go on, do it!"—"You know you want to…"), however, were enough to convince England to walk over—silently—to the sleeping Patriot. He looked down, and stared at the face of rebellion, of America, of his colony and remembered the days when he and America would go out, frolicking in the meadows, sometimes looking for faeries; the mornings where England would cook and America would eat all of his food; the nights where they would sometimes lay on the ground next to each other and he would teach the constellations, or when he would murmur stories to his young charge and they would sleep…

He dropped his sword.

"He's still…America," England whispered, "'sides, it's not like he'll actually—"

Later, when asked to recall this incident, England isn't sure if it had all be a figment of his imagination or possibly the faeries playing tricks on him (again) or even if it was real.

The Loyalist had disappeared.

It was late at night when America finally stirred. The sun had long set and England sat beside his colony, hoping fervently that the younger one would be well.

"E-England?" America called voice hoarse, as if he had overused it. In the corner of his eye, he saw England jump from his seat and dash over to his bedside.

"You're alright?" England asked, standing over him. America vaguely thought, with the lighting over England like that, England looked very much like an angel. Not that he'd admit it.

America nodded, wishing that his headache would ease soon. He got up, pushing away the covers—

"What are you doing?" England asked, scandalized at the fact that America was getting up—and how DARE he just push away those covers England made?

"I'm sorry," America murmured. England froze, stopped thinking, his heart eased. "I—well, it was rash… and I'm truly sorry…" England softened at this when America paused. "But what I said earlier—this morning—I meant it," he finished earnestly.

England snapped out of his daze. "Don't be daft, boy!" he said, refusing to believe America's words. America wouldn't—he wouldn't—"You have no idea what's out there—you don't, America—"

"I know, England!" America interjected, "that's why I want to be independent. I can't stay as your colony forever, living under your rule and," he paused and England secretly thought that he preferred it that way—that way, America was, at least, safe. "I know, I know there are others who want to use me to get what they want." _I know they're not like you, England._

"You'll never make it," England stated flatly once he unstuck his throat, "it's a tough world out there… besides, we need you, the people of Great Britain needs you—I need you," England's voice grew softer as each word had been laced with guilt, lowering his volume to prevent detection.

America looked slightly surprised, but moments later, his brows furrowed together as he realized why England needed him. "You only need me for money—England, you only need me to help pay up, pay your debt…" America whispered.

England could see an accusing finger in America's words as he continued.

"We all know the Sugar Act a couple years ago was just the beginning. But then you just had to go ahead and say, 'Oh ho! You have to let my soldiers rest in your peoples' homes!' and guess what? They didn't like it! Not only that, you couldn't stop. C'mon England, taxes on all legal documents, stamps, and paper? Running out of ideas?" America stood up now, advancing angrily at his elder, "then the Declaratory Act—England…" America's eyes pleaded, "and the newer ones just last month was the last straw."

But England stood still, willing to withstand all the blows America verbally dealt out because he knew America was right. _America was right._

"They were intolerable," America murmured, "can you see now how I want to be independent? I don't want to be your pawn like India—I don't want to be used." _If you hadn't started, I might not have rebelled…_

"Can you blame me?" America pushed England down, too shocked to move, and laid there. He straddled him, grabbing England's collar. "Can you? You don't understand—you! The great British Empire, how can you possibly understand?"

England snapped. Without a second thought, he shoved America off him and proceeded to give him a fist to his face. As America lay on the ground, England marched over, and grabbed his collar, pulling him up, blind with rage.

"'can't possibly understand'?" No, you don't understand, you bloody git. I have lived much longer than you have—well over a millennium, boy! I have lived under another's rule, been conquered, lived in fear of disappearing because I was so small," England's voice grew into a whisper, "while you have me, protecting you from such things… America, I do understand—it's you, you who can't possibly know the cold feeling, overwhelming you, feeling as if you would die or disappear when no one believed in our country's—your nation's existence any longer…"

America seemed to have stopped altogether, except for his hand rubbing his throbbing cheek. Silence passed between the two of them—minutes… until America decided it was enough.

"England, you're being unfair—what I'm trying to say is—I don't want to be your tool—I—"

"You don't think I once was? I'm only protecting you from others… And face it, America, with your youth, it won't happen—your independence—it won't be for a while. Don't get your hopes up…" England warned him, remembering his days when he to wait for years, decades, centuries, to finally become the British Empire he was today.

America turned away, mumbling to himself, "You still don't understand, old man…"

When England didn't answer, a mutual understand set around the two—country and colony—to take it to another day, another time. Now was not it.

They didn't speak, however, the very next morning. The silence between them was heavy enough to weigh down a frigate and stop it in its tracks.

At noon, England stood on the deck of the ship departing for Great Britain. America did not give him his customary smile, a sad one, weeping or otherwise the manlier version of such as that. And England felt something change between them but he couldn't tell what it was. As the ship started moving, he watched as America turn and leave and felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

When England finally arrived home months later, he was immediately welcome. Before he realized it, a year or two had gone by before he visited America again. One day, as he walked into his office, the letter on his desk greeted him, hailing from America. And then he remembered why he had not visited in so long-the last letter from America contained the contents of a revolution-of how America and his people were now rebelling-and he knew the letter residing on his desk would not be good news. With shaking fingers, he peeled off the seal and flattened the parchment inside.

His eyes scanned the title:

_Declaration of Independence_

And he felt the world suddenly tip.

**Notes**: In my head, when America decided to declare independence (the Patriots), not every was happy about it (hence the Loyalists), you know? So what about that half? And so, I thought it might be like (also my headcanon) the civil war situation where they get split. Only, for America, I thought that since England chose to ignore America's pleas to be independent, waving it aside, he allowed America to be successful in his rebellion. Or something. It might sense in my head. :\

A-And uh, the following history stuff are from my 10th grade history notes. OTL

Sugar Act (1764) – It was the first law passed for raising taxes in the colonies. It increased duties on foreign sugar from the West Indies.

Quarting Act (1765) – It required certain colonies to provide food and shelter for British soldiers.

Stamp Act (1765) – Mandated use of stamps certifying payment of tax on—basically any paper. This is when America first starts to protest, crying "No taxation without representation". Later repealed in 1766. (Uh, I kind of ignored that part 'cause I couldn't figure out how to fit it in once I…learned of this. OTL)

Declaratory Act (1766) – It basically said that the colonies had to listen to the British Empire and Parliament.

Townshend Acts (1767) – More TAXES and dues with most of the money paying salaries for the royal governors and judges. Later on repealed but a toll was kept.

Intolerable Acts (1774) – closed Boston Harbor after the Boston Tea Party until damages were paid and order ensured. Took away a lot of Massachusetts' chartered rights. Restrictions on town meetings.


End file.
